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Derek Cheng emerges from being lost and alone into the spectacular scenery of Nahuel Huapi National Park.

Sweat, dirt and tree sap cover every pore as I smash my way through the dense wall of shrubbery in search of a track.

Daylight is fading in this remote part of the Argentinian Andes. I am lost. Alone. Covered in pollen and who knows what else from close encounters with unforgiving flora. Then, as if on cue, mosquitoes attack.

I should have bought a detailed topographical map. Instead I stare at the free, cereal-box version from the visitors' centre in Bariloche, a resort town in the middle of Patagonia.

It looks like a game of join the dots. Eventually I choose a direction, soak up all the hope I can muster, and charge through the impenetrable forest. For three hours I battle, metre by fabulous metre. And then, a clearing appears. I run towards it and find merciful salvation. The track!

I drop my heavy pack, strip, and dive into a small stream. Cleansing, cool waters breathe new life into my tired body.

When I emerge, I go to put up my tent ... my tent ... where are my tent poles?

My backpack was crammed so tightly that stuffing them inside could have put excessive pressure on them. So I'd strapped them to the outside. And as I'd waded through the wood, the forest had swallowed them. Idiot!

Retracing steps is a prospect overflowing with repugnancy. Instead I stack rocks, balance sticks, and hang my tent fly over the top.

Summer in the Nahuel Huapi National Park is usually swarming with hikers on well-trodden paths through the mountains.

The hardest route is a traverse from Colonia Suiza, a small community founded by the Swiss to the edge of Lago Fria (Cold Lake) — three mountain passes with 3000m of ascending and descending, more than 70km in all, from the heart of the Andes to the edge of the Chilean border.

The first day follows a popular track to Laguna Negra (Black Lake), where a lodge with cooked meals and beer awaits those with fat wallets.

But on the second day, the track shrinks to slightly wider than a bicycle tyre, splitting off over a pass.

The scenery is spectacular, passing a number of lakes and beech forests — not unlike the South Island's West Coast. Granite plateaus and spires rise steeply and full of menace, and the terrain is dotted with clear, colourful lakes of different hues of blue.

It is curious how complete solitude can be so refreshing one minute, and so alarming the next.

I was on a faint path, hugging a granite face, but lost it completely when it ducked into the forest. I forged on, thinking it would reappear. It didn't.

Soon I was elbow-deep in pollen, waving wildly to keep protruding flora out of my face, and longing for a machete. Chancing upon the clearing triggered a flood of relief — until it was time to set up camp.

My campsites for the next four nights depend on the availability of tree stumps, and the ease with which I can put my tent over said stump.